


good god, you’re a sweet thing

by aceofdiamonds



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 12:45:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9440975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofdiamonds/pseuds/aceofdiamonds
Summary: after hearing so much about each other from afar, ginny and sansa finally meet in ginny's fifth year.This is a crush, of course it is, but it’s also a long-awaited connection with a girl who knows what it’s like to have a bit of your soul stolen by a boy who pretended to care, and if that’s a package deal then Ginny is grabbing it with both hands.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i have so many more thoughts about these two and what to add and different perspectives so there will be maybe be more. ginny is 16, even if that's not strictly true. and sansa is also 16, almost 17. title is from sweet thing by van morrison

  


"Did you hear Ginny Weasley's a lesbian?" the rumours say, whispers behind hands, long looks in corridors, and it's annoying because --  
  
"I'm bi," she tells a particularly loud group of third years.  
  
"Didn't you fancy Harry Potter?" a brave one asks.  
  
"Yeah," Ginny says. "That's what bi means."  
  
"I fancy Harry Potter," another girl says. "Does that mean I'm bi?"  
  
Ginny bites the inside of her cheek to stop from smiling. "No, that doesn't," she says. "All I'm saying is, if you have to gossip, stop saying I'm a lesbian, get your gossip right."  
  
The girls nod in unison. Ginny heads to Charms feeling she's done some good in the world. Combating bi erasure and all that.  
  
  
.  
  
  
The whole lesbian talk came about because of this: Ginny Weasley is dating Sansa Stark.  
  
And this happened because, well, how do these things usually happen? They're not in the same classes, Sansa being the year above and in Ravenclaw, they're not rivals on the Quidditch pitch, and, honestly they don't have much in common, but one day it's raining outside and they both take cover under the same alcove and hey, sometimes it's that simple.  
  
"Now's the time I wish I'd practiced water-repellant spells," Sansa says to Ginny, shivering.  
  
"If only teachers gave us useful spells instead of teaching us how to transfigure tortoises into teacups," Ginny agrees. "You are tempting fate, though, not wearing a cloak in October."  
  
"Would you believe me if I said I was looking for wild daisies for my potion?"  
  
"Anyone who goes to extra lengths for Potions is suspicious in my book," and Sansa laughs.  
  
"I'm Sansa," she says, holds out a hand. Which Ginny knows because not to rest too much on rumours but she's heard quite a few about Sansa and sometimes hearing something like that makes Ginny's insides twists because someone else has gone through something awful and lived to tell the tale. Also, Ginny loves her hair, and her eyes, and Merlin, everything about her really. The fact that this is the first time they're speaking is nothing short of a miracle.  
  
"I know," she admits, because she would've hated to know people were talking about her behind her back but she can't pretend otherwise either. "I'm Ginny."  
  
"I know," Sansa echoes, ducks her head in a laugh. "This school's smaller than you think and when you're on the Quidditch team and part of a team that fought Death Eaters at the Ministry you're kind of hard to miss."  
  
"Yeah. It's hard to blend in when you put it like that. But I heard what your family did to Joffrey Baratheon -- that was impressive," because Ginny likes a good revenge story as much as the next person and she remembers the way Ron had nodded in solidarity with what Robb, Jon, Arya, and Bran had done.  
  
"Funny we've heard so much about each other and this is the first we're speaking," which, look, that's what Ginny was saying. Sansa smiles at her then holds a hand out to test the rain. “I think it’s almost off.”

“I know a good place for daisies next time you’re looking,” Ginny offers, making wild guesses as to where she might find some. She’ll ask Neville.

Sansa nods. “I’ll take you up on that, Ginny,” and then she steps into the rain, hands a makeshift shield above her head. “I’ll see you around.”

And Ginny leans back against the stone wall and finds herself wishing the rain had never stopped.  
  
  
.  
  


_Around_ comes the next week when Ginny’s in the library working on a Potions essay and failing miserably. She’s had Hermione muttering about Harry’s sudden skill in Potions this year enough to consider asking him for help but then she looks up and sees Sansa sitting alone at a table and she grabs the opportunity to talk to her again.

She scoops up her books, parchment, and bag, and drops down next to Sansa. “Sorry to interrupt,” she says, “but I’m dying.”

Sansa moves her things out of the way of the collapse of Ginny’s arms. “Sounds serious -- how can I help?”

Ginny shoves her parchment over, feels that would be a better explanation, and Sansa looks it over, nods like she understands Ginny’s messy handwriting. “I don’t want to take advantage of you but I’m not great at Potions and Snape hates me.”

“Snape hates a lot of people,” Sansa agrees. “Honestly, a lot of Potions is luck based on the ingredients you have and the way they mix and this essay is just more of that. I remember doing this last year -- here,” she picks up a book, thumbs through to a chapter. “This has most of what you want in it in basically the order to write it.”

Ginny throws her a grateful look as she scans the pages, creating a plan at the top of her parchment, “You’re a saviour, Sansa, thanks.”

Sansa tucks her hair behind her ear, shrugs off the thanks. “What are Ravenclaws for?”

“And if I ever say a bad word against you lot after a match know I’m not meaning you,” Ginny grins.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she promises. “Anyway, my loyalties are split between every house thanks to my family and their obsession with Quidditch,” which is a little too uninterested in the game for Ginny’s liking but she lets it slide at the way Sansa’s nose crinkles with distaste. “They forget I don’t care who wins.”

“Just say Gryffindor next time,” Ginny suggests, chewing at her quill. “We’re going to win anyway, they can’t complain with your picking the right side.”

“And here I thought I was going to get sensible conversation from you,” Sansa replies, dropping her chin onto her hand and smiling at Ginny. Something _twists_ inside of her then, thrilling and needy, and Ginny takes in a breath. After she grew out of her Hippogriff-sized crush on Harry she came to view the girls that fawned at his feet as unknowing and desperate, hypocritical of her as it was, but now she’s feeling quite the same, as though she’s twelve again and star-struck into speechlessness.

“No one ever needs sensibility in their lives, Sansa,” she hears herself say over the roaring in her ears at this new-found revelation. “But if that’s what you want --” she spreads her hands, tilts her head, and finds herself unwittingly pulling out the smile she always reserved for Michael Corner and his floppy hair. “Wasn’t Binns’ telling of the Goblin Wars _fascinating_?”

Sansa laughs at that, too loud at first which warrants a guilty look over her shoulder for Madam Pince, and then into her hand. “No one ever told me you were funny, Ginny Weasley.”

Which is enough to settle Ginny back into her comfort zone and tug the conversation into waters they both know, music, books, the likelihood of snow, and a list that extends on and on until the library is closing and Ginny’s essay is as unfinished as when she entered the library hours ago.

When Madam Pince ushers them out into the corridor at eight, they walk together through the floors until they reach a corner which takes Sansa one way and Ginny the other.

“Good luck at the match on Saturday,” Sansa says as they say their goodnights. “I’ll see what mood I’m in when I wake up, which team I’ll support.”

Ginny’s heart spins and she plunges forward. “I’ll make it worth your while if your scarf is red,” and maybe she’s leaning too far into this but Sansa’s cheeks tinge red for a moment before she recovers and sticks her tongue out in response. In an evening of surprises, this one tips Ginny over the edge.

“Thanks again for the Potions help,” she says through a laugh as Sansa busies herself with sorting her robes, her hair covering her face.

“If you need anything again,” Sansa says, the offer hanging open.

They’ve stretched this parting moment out long enough -- Ginny waves and turns her way, Sansa doing the same, and it takes an astonishing amount of willpower not to turn and check what Sansa might be doing.

  


.

  


The crush labels itself as such and Ginny busies herself with Quidditch practices and doing her own form of helping Harry coax Ron into not flying into the hoops for their first match. She spends time with Luna and pretends she doesn't know what she's talking about when Luna says things about Nargles and Wrackspurts and the look in Ginny’s eyes when she joins Luna for breakfast at the Ravenclaw table and spends half her time looking at Sansa, ducking her head when Sansa turns to catch her eye. Luna makes noises about fluidity and openness and Ginny murmurs something nonsensical in return, thoughts on the gleam in Sansa’s eye last night when they'd been talking about Diagon Alley, Fred and George’s shop, and the importance of a few laughs as Death Eaters stalk the country. It’s easy to label this as pink-coloured and weightless, an infatuation with a beautiful girl, but this is Hogwarts, and there’s always something else under the surface -- and, well, Ginny likes being around someone else who has gone through a trauma, someone who has come out the other side, because before you say Harry Potter, the Boy with Everything on his Shoulders, he’s still in the midst of it all. Ginny needs survivors, girls who poured out their hearts and got themselves burned in the process.

This is a crush, of course it is, but it’s also a long-awaited connection with a girl who knows what it’s like to have a bit of your soul stolen by a boy who pretended to care, and if that’s a package deal then Ginny is grabbing it with both hands.

(By grabbing it with both hands, she means, of course, that she will sneak looks at dinner and laugh loudly at Sansa’s jokes, and spend nights with her thoughts cluttered by fiery hair and pale blue eyes, and she won’t open her mouth about any of this to the person it concerns.)

  


.

  
  


A Hogsmeade weekend comes around in early December. Ginny’s been spending so much time with Sansa recently she wonders if it goes without saying that she would like them to go around the village together but it doesn’t come up and then it’s the Friday before and Ginny feels her face flaming and Merlin, this girl with her hair pulled over one shoulder and her smile soft and patient as Ginny works to release the words from her mouth -- this girl, she’s made Ginny’s insides a mess and Ginny fucking loves it.

“Of course, Ginny,” Sansa says when Ginny has successfully finished the question and the giddiness sitting in her chest twists itself up way past ten. “I just assumed...”

“Well, it’s official now,” Ginny says, and they stare and they smile and Ginny hugs everything she’s feeling at the moment into her heart because it’s a bleak world out there and she wants to bottle this bubblegum pinkness that has her dizzy with glee. “I have to go to practice,” feeling for a split-second a regret that Harry scheduled a practice for this very moment, “I’ll meet you in the Great Hall?”

“I’ll be the one with the red hair,” Sansa teases.

Ginny pulls at her own pleat. “And what’ll I be?”

“You’ll be the one with freckles all over her face and a shit-eating grin,” she replies.

“You better not mistake me for Ron.”

“I’ve never looked twice at Ron,” and there’s so much being left unsaid there but that look between them continues and Ginny thinks you’d have to have eyes worse than Harry to miss whatever this is.

There’s a beat here where Sansa _glows_.

  


.

  


In the winter cold of Northern Scotland it makes sense to walk with their arms linked, their heads close, as they follow the path trodden through the snow. There are Warming Spells that neither of them are good at and there are hats and scarves but instead they huddle together for warmth. Ginny used to look at girls walking like this with envy. After first year people were wary of her; they were nice but they were distant. At first Colin, one of the people with most reason to hate her, was one of the only ones who were kind and friendly and didn’t act like she was about to explode, and later, after shared classes and circumstances outwith classes throwing them together, Luna became someone she trusted, but this, this easiness, this understanding, a gesture as small and simple as linking arms and leaning in together, is something that has danced around the back of Ginny’s mind as something missed, but now she has it, and it feels nice, that’s the only way to describe it.

“Should we go to the Three Broomsticks?” Sansa suggests as they turn up the lane leading to the pub and they both run out of steam with their Weird Sisters argument. Sansa doesn’t hate them, it’d be impossible to, growing up with Robb and Bran, but she prefers the romance Celestina brings. Ginny keeps her end of the debate up, citing the lyrics of This is the Night by the Weird Sisters as peak romance while keeping quiet about suddenly understanding half of Celestina’s songs as Sansa’s hand slips to squeeze hers momentarily before holding the door open and ushering Ginny inside. “Hurry up, it’s freezing.”

“I thought you Starks loved the cold,” Ginny reminds her. “You’re always talking about winter coming -- what’s that even mean?” Robb’s on the Gryffindor team and sometimes he’ll quote their overused phrase and stare off over the mountains until someone aims a Bludger at him and he swears and warns them of snow for their March match.

Sansa orders them Butterbeers, carrying them over to a table for two in the corner before she answers. She takes a gulp, shivers as the liquid seeps through her body, and then says, “When my dad was wee he lived on a farm up in Skye -- when the cold weather came the animals suffered.” She shrugs. “It’s just something we’ve always been taught. When winter comes, don’t underestimate it.”

“And that can be applied to other things?” Ginny asks, her mind always shifting to the darkness of the country.

“Exactly. Don’t underestimate the future.”

“That’s bleak,” Ginny replies, and doesn’t mention her mum’s clock that’s stuck at mortal peril. She bets if her family ever had a motto it’d be something to do with the ghoul in the attic -- there’s no way to spin that into a war-worthy defense. “I like to think of the future as being so bright we can’t see it yet.”

Sansa nods. “I like that. Optimistic.”

“There’s something about waking up on the floor of a bloody chamber under the school and knowing you were moments from death that gives you a different look on life,” which is the most candidly Ginny has ever spoken about her time with Tom in the Chamber.

“I can’t pretend to know how you feel,” Sansa says gently. “But last year with Joffrey -- there were times when I felt I couldn’t breathe, like I was trapped forever, and it was him physically attacking me that gave me the clarity that I had to get out of there.”

Ginny’s spent enough time in her own head to catch the hitch of Sansa’s breath despite her chin tilted high and the matter-of-fact way she’s attempting to tell her story. Even after their time at the Ministry last year, Ginny has been floundering, almost _waiting_ , for someone to come along and say they have felt like this. There’s a part of her that feels guilty for the small sense of relief she gets from hearing Sansa discuss her relationship with Joffrey but the words she uses and the empathy she has is something Ginny has been desperate for without even knowing it.

“That’s what I’m saying,” Ginny says, voice low, voice soft. In this moment Ginny doesn’t think of Harry, the boy whose shoulders have slumped lower this year as secrets and destinies are dropped upon his short life. Their futures are bleak, uncertain, and Ginny doesn’t know how she would cope with the information Harry has, but she has to look to herself, and to the horrors of her past, and how she’s going to reach the other side. “We survived, Sansa. We can take what comes and we can look further.”

“The unholy terror of teenage boys,” Sansa says, hand gentle on Ginny’s knee to show she’s not trivialising Tom and the monster he hid behind.

“Always thinking they’re more important than the rest of us,” Ginny agrees, echoes the lightness.

“Causing destruction everywhere they go,” and now Sansa’s hand squeezes a little and Ginny covers it with her own. “It feels worse, trapped inside here with them.”

Ginny understands that. Hogwarts is Hogwarts, the place everyone counts down the days to from when they turn nine and the hub of Britain’s past, present, and future, but once it’s tainted it can’t be undone, and Ginny is left with a bad taste in her mouth every time she goes near that first floor corridor. She supposes she can count something lucky that at least Tom Riddle isn’t stalking his way around the school, making lewd comments to girls and hexing everyone who looks at him the wrong way. Merlin, she hates Joffrey Baratheon.

“What are your plans in the big wide world, then, Sansa?” she asks, spreading her arm high, the mood shifting, opening up. “When we leave the best and worst place of our lives?”

Sansa hums, tilts her head back against the booth. “I change my mind a lot,” she confesses. “Some days I want to work in the Ministry, in a department that makes a difference, and others I want to do some good by Healing in St. Mungos. Sometimes I want to set up a shop in Diagon Alley and sometimes I want to hole myself up in a flat and do freelance journalism via owl.”

“That’s a lot of options,” and here Ginny might gush about how she’d be good at all of them but that might sound insincere, if true, so she holds back. “My brothers have a shop in Diagon Alley -- I could ask them how they got started.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I could ever actually do something like that,” Sansa brushes off the tinge of commitment and plans. “It’s just some thoughts. For now half of me wants to stay inside this bubble of protection until the war is over and the other half wants to get out there and do something,” which is a neat summation of Ginny’s feelings and the anguish of being too young. “But what about you, Gin? What’s your dream goal?”

The same one she’s had since she was eight and Charlie caught her on a broom, told her she was decent. “Professional Quidditch,” she says, and it comes out in a sigh all too wistful.

Sansa says, “Of course,” doesn't roll her eyes, and Ginny floats with the nod of validation and the rush that happens when your ambition is said out loud for the first time. “You can take me to all the fancy parties.”

“I’ll give you the Cup to drink your Butterbeer from,” Ginny promises.

“We’ll be older then,” Sansa disagrees. “Firewhiskey or wine.”

The possibilities of the future stretch out so far in front of them Ginny has to squint to see their lives ten years from now. It's foggy at the moment, dark and uncertain, but there's that brightness beyond that that settles in Ginny’s heart and hurts her eyes.

Sansa stumbled into her life and Ginny’s having trouble not tying everything to her but it's hard when Sansa is sketching out a giant Quidditch Cup, two figures swimming around inside it. How do you fight against something like that?

  


.

 

  
The first time Ginny kisses Sansa it's a spur of the moment type of thing because that's what she's good at. A lot of things are balanced in her favour: it’s Christmas, which means mistletoe and snow and Sansa is a huge romantic, so there’s that, too; and also, Ginny doesn’t want to overreach but she thinks Sansa likes her too and she thinks that the kiss will be received well, and so she waits for a gap in Sansa’s speech about fae rights in the North of Scotland, a niche topic Ginny finds fascinating but she’s distracted by the way Sansa’s eyes are lit up and the passion in her voice and then she’s leaning in and kissing her and Merlin, this feels right.

The first kiss lingers, gentle, testing. Ginny’s mouth rests against Sansa’s, nothing more, for a beat, and then she moves back an inch to meet Sansa’s eyes for a confirmation that this is okay.

When Sansa opens her eyes and nods, Ginny moves back in, already eager for more. With the agreement set, Sansa throws everything into it, opening her mouth, shuffling closer. Ginny doesn’t like to make grand thoughts, it feels odd to during the time of the country, but she can’t help but leap to bigger thoughts about future times and fireworks (the real kind, not her brothers’, good as they are).

Her hands slide through Sansa’s hair, tilting her head because she has to get closer, she has to get everything out of this. This is the culmination of weeks of talking and laughing and gently flirting, a compliment there, a joke here, a touch of the arm, and Ginny’s going to savour this for all that it's worth.

“I've been hoping you'd do that for a while now,” Sansa admits when they break apart, contemplating the step into new territory, thoughts of offers and negotiations to tread further across the boundaries swimming near the front of Ginny’s mind.

“Since when?” Ginny asks, pushes her luck, but Sansa’s hand is warm where it's holding hers, and not to rest everything on the way their fingers are intertwined and their breath is mingling, but Ginny feels like nothing could go wrong, like there's no wrong thing to say.

“A while,” Sansa says coyly. “I was going to do it myself if nothing had happened before we went home for Christmas but you're an overachiever, Gin.”

“You love winter,” Ginny replies, and that seems reason enough when Sansa gushes about snow and magic and the bloom of warmth beside the fire. Ginny says _you love winter_ and it sounds like _i wanted to make you happy the way ice does_ _and the way you make me_ and Sansa squeezes her hand and kisses her again like she understands exactly.

The evening dissolves into hot breaths and curious hands, into careful touches and the assurance that this is exactly where both of them want to be. It ends with a kiss that drags on and on, that has Ginny breaking away with a sigh and a promise for more tomorrow.

  


.

  


They say goodbye for Christmas in a nook on the fifth floor. After a heated discussion where Ginny loses track of her side of the debate countless times, they finish the evening with a languid kiss, Sansa’s back to the wall and Ginny fitting herself between her legs. Curfew is missed by a half hour that flies in and they sprint back to the seventh floor, a race emerging even as they try and be quiet.

“Robb would never let me live it down if he caught me out after curfew,” Sansa groans.

“That’s the danger of having a Head Boy for a brother,” Ginny points out, dismissing Ron’s Prefect status on the grounds that she could argue her case to Hermione and probably come out somewhat victorious.

“I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, Ginny,” Sansa whispers, ducking in to kiss Ginny one last time. “Merlin, is it absurd that I feel like I’ve known you for much longer than I have?”

“Our families don’t keep their heads down -- we were bound to run into each other at some point,” Ginny declares. “And if that was your way of saying you’re going to miss me I suppose I’ll feel the same.”

“Oh, you _suppose_ ,” Sansa replies, smirking as she steps away, too tall. “You can’t even play Quidditch in that weather to distract you from thoughts of me.”

“Watch me,” Ginny goads. She catches Sansa around the waist, hugs her, curfew all but forgotten. “I’m going to spend the next two weeks throwing Quaffles at snowflakes and you’re going to nurse me back to health when I catch a deadly cold.”

“I’ll feed you Pepper-Up and croon Celestina in your ear.”

“See? Now I almost _want_ to be ill.”

“Don’t you think Celestina sounds completely different when you begin to understand the things she’s singing about?”

Which is a very nice thing to hear if you read between the lines and take what you want from it. Ginny falls back in for one more kiss. “I do,” and that’s an admittance right back.

  


.

  


Christmas seems to stretch out forever, games of Exploding Snap and one very cold Quidditch match punctuated by an uninvited and unwelcome Rufus Scrimgeour and Percy.

Later, Ginny helps Ron and Harry do the dishes with an occasional help from Fred and George when they're not threateningly hovering plates and leftovers over everyone’s heads.

“You're idiots,” Ginny tells them with that fondness reserved for brothers. She shoves a tea towel at them, hates that the face she pulls is so convincingly like Mum’s that they start helping.

“You won’t be calling us that when we tell Mum about a boy called Dean Thomas,” Fred says lightly, whipping Ron over the back of the head.

“Dean was last year,” Ginny says, the brief fortnight she’d hung out with Dean seeming miles and miles away from what she has now. “If you’re going to threaten to tattle get your facts right.”

“So who is it now?” George throws his arm around Harry’s neck. “Has young Harry here wised up?” Harry struggles briefly under the weight of George’s arm but then gives up, face flushing slightly. Ginny peers at him, wonders what does and doesn’t add up here, but Harry rolls his eyes and shrugs George off with something muttered.

“What Harry or I do is none of your business,” Ginny tells him, sticking her tongue out. “Speak to Ron if you want romance,” and she sniggers at the stiffening of Ron’s shoulders as he sluices water over a pan. “Go on, Fred. Ask him about Lavender Brown.”

Fred claps a hand to his chest. “ _Ron_ ,” he simpers. “Tell us _everything_. Please -- start with the bit where you manage to concoct a love potion so strong Lavender can’t bear to resist you.”

“Fuck off,” Ron says, and turns deep crimson. “None of your business.”

“Oh, but it _is_ , Ron,” Fred disagrees. “That’s what we’re for.”

Ginny stands back, tea towel in hand, and wonders what it’ll be like when she tells them about Sansa. She wonders if they’ll tease her the way they do now, if they'll be different about it, and she hopes desperately that they won't.

  


.

  


It doesn’t seem possible that months can pass without feeling anything other than pure undulated happiness. Ginny becomes an insufferable version of her past self -- she hums under her breath in class, swoops through practice light as a feather, and passes up several opportunities for inflicting bogeys on nosy boys and the Ministry last summer.

She wonders if she should question that she didn't feel this way with Michael or Dean but then Sansa has her bent over with laughter and she realises that neither of them ever really cracked her outer shell.  

  


.

  


Sansa opens up to her about Joffrey slowly, a throwaway mention there, a shiver in his direction there. Ginny knows there’s a balance between wanting to keep your mouth shut and wanting to spill everything and that the balance is hard to find and so she doesn’t prod but she mentions Tom every now and then, mentions the Ministry, and attempts to normalise the discussion, to show Sansa that she can be her safe space.

They’re sitting in the library doing homework when Sansa clears her throat and says, “Joffrey punched a hole in me that I thought was going to be there forever but now,” she glances up from her essay, tucks her hair behind her ear, and adds, “it doesn’t feel as bad as it did.”

A sole girl growing up amongst six brothers means that subtlety and tact isn’t always her strong suit but Ginny sits down her quill, angles her body towards Sansa’s, and conjures every bit of patience and gentility she can find. “People told me that after Tom -- time, time, time, that’s what heals, and all I wanted to do was drink a potion that would help me move on, I didn’t want to wait for something that might never happen, and then one day I woke up and things didn’t seem as bad as the day before.”

“He made me feel so alone,” Sansa continues, voice hushed. “Like I was stupid, a liar; he made me struggle with my magic, which made me worry about everything else. In front of everyone he was funny and kind -- if I’d spoken out I’d have been seen as a liar. I didn’t think I was ever getting out of there.” She takes in a breath, and then another, reaches for Ginny’s hand. “When he started hexing me -- small things, just to make me flinch -- I remembered reading about girls in this position and I’d always wondered how they hadn’t escaped but you can’t. The hexes turned to curses which turned to punches, and then one day Arya noticed my bruises, the ones I’d forgotten to heal, and it felt like being reborn, as ridiculous as that sounds. That was almost two years ago and I never thought I’d find anyone outside of my family that I could trust -- then you came along and fell into my life and now the past feels like it’ll stay there.” Sansa stops here, chews her lip, and waits.

Ginny moves on instinct. She shuffles closer until she can wrap her arms around Sansa’s shoulders, tugging gently until Sansa can rest against her. She pushes her face into Sansa’s neck, inhales the scent of her hair, the floral perfume she dabs behind her ears, and holds on. Her hand strokes Sansa’s back, squeezes her close. “You can always trust me, Sansa,” she tells her, because in the way the world is currently, those words can never be overstated. “Thank you for trusting me to tell me that. I’m so sorry that happened to you.” It’s almost easy to get caught-up in the terrors of Harry and whatever he has to do to defeat Voldemort and forget that there are people who are suffering from wounds not caused from the war they’re currently fighting.

Sansa holds onto her waist. She breathes. The moment stretches out.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, lips brushing Ginny’s ear. “You’ve been to hell and back, I’m sorry for dumping more into your lap.”

“If there’s anything I’ve learned from it all is that we’re all more resilient than we think,” which is more profound than anything else Ginny has ever said but she realises that it’s true. She slowly pulls back just enough to rest her forehead on Sansa’s. She kisses her cheek. “Divination has never been interesting to me but something about this feels a bit like fate, doesn’t it?”

“The stars know everything, Gin,” Sansa replies, breaking into a smile, eyes twinkling. “I didn’t take Divination just for Firenze, you know. We’ve been destined for a long time.”

“Not to put too much pressure on us then.”

Sansa kisses her then, smiles against her lips. “We’re resilient. Unbreakable,” and in that moment Ginny feels like that’s true.

  


.

  


Another Hogsmeade weekend comes around in early April but instead of fighting the crowds Ginny persuades Sansa to stay back and they take advantage of the mostly-empty school to sneak Sansa into Ginny’s dorm. They charm the curtains shut, cast a Silencing spell, and spend the afternoon stretched out on the bed, exploring areas unavailable to them when they’re hiding in alcoves and broom closets.

Ginny doesn’t notice clothes are disappearing until she’s got nothing on but her knickers and Sansa is matching. With Michael they never progressed snogging and the two weeks with Dean had a couple of below the belt fumbles but suddenly Sansa Stark is stretched out the length of her, her tongue in Ginny’s mouth and her body hot against hers and Ginny’s head spins and spins with the need for _more_.

“Is this okay?” she asks Sansa, wondering where her breath has gone when she drops her head onto her pillow.

Sansa smudges a kiss onto her collarbone, leans up to kiss her. “More than.” She shifts so she’s straddling Ginny, a sight that has Ginny’s thoughts galloping way in front of her. Her hands dance along Sansa’s waist, reaching for everything at once. She settles for stroking the hem of Sansa’s underwear, thumb dipping under. “Are you okay with this?” Sansa checks with her.

She knows that in times like this people get carried away, over-exaggerate, and Ginny knows that she’s doing the exact same, but understands why when she raises onto her elbow to kiss Sansa and tell her. “Nothing’s going to top this,” which is hyperbolic but then Sansa moves her hand, skirts the same boundaries Ginny has bravely been attempting, and it feels like the truest thing she’s said in her life.

Aside from what she likes with herself and a couple of curious thoughts about Sansa Ginny has no experience at all in this area. Lacking in substantial experience has never been something to hold her back before and so she eagerly rises to the challenge of making Sansa feel good. The gasp in her mouth and the way Sansa’s hips shift tell her a thousand things -- it floods her belly with a glow that fights for space alongside the burn of anticipation. She chases after both feelings, desperate to discover the payoff of making someone else feel the way she does when it’s late and her fingers are searching for what it might feel like to have Sansa touch her like that.

But she gets distracted when Sansa moves down her body, removes her underwear with her wand, and the confidence Sansa touches her with. Her nails are longer than Ginny is used to but she finds she doesn’t mind when Sansa brushes over her, careful and then quick, one finger circling her. Ginny’s brain strays to etiquette in a situation like this, is it okay to touch Sansa’s hand, her hair? She feels like she can’t not, not when Sansa is making her heart quicken and her hips arch and she becomes single-minded in her need to reach to reach to reach

It builds into a glorious rise that Ginny chases and chases and then it’s over and Sansa is dealing with herself and Ginny moves her hand out of the way in favour of her own and _oh_ , the way Sansa feels is because of her, because of how she fell apart from Sansa’s fingers and her clever mouth, and now she’s making Sansa make these moans that she wants to listen to forever and now she’s breathing quickly, then barely breathing at all, her body is taut, and Ginny keeps moving her fingers, circles them where she likes it on herself, careful not to go too fast, too hard, and then Sansa whooshes out a breath, clamps Ginny’s fingers between her legs and groans.

Ginny wonders if the look on her face betrays the awe she’s feeling as she watches Sansa open her eyes, blink slowly.

“We wouldn’t find anything like that in Hogsmeade,” Sansa says, her voice scratchy.

“I wouldn’t put it past Puddifoot's to have some sordid password-only operation going on,” Ginny disagrees, her mouth detached from her brain which is stuck on the image of Sansa and the curve of her mouth when she came.

Sansa grins lazily. “You wouldn’t find me in Hogsmeade,” she concedes, expression halfway innocent as her foot trails up Ginny’s leg.

“I’m never going to Hogsmeade again,” Ginny declares, reaching out and cupping Sansa’s neck, dragging her over so she can kiss her.

The rest of the afternoon continues in much the same way, interspersed with talking and laughing and spells of napping, until Ginny peeks out the curtains to check the time and sees everyone will be on their way back. She stretches, allows her hand to drop onto Sansa’s chest, and turns it over to hold Sansa’s when it joins hers.

“Time’s up,” she mumbles reluctantly.

“We’ve spoiled ourselves today,” Sansa says as she pulls her dress back on. “We’re not going to get an opportunity like this for a while.”

“This sort of problem is exactly what Gryffindors and Ravenclaws are for. With my courage and your brains we’ll think of something,” which Ginny is going to need because if she had any hope of concentrating in class before all of that has gone out of the window.

Ginny finds her t-shirt and shorts, the clothes feeling odd against her skin after the afternoon. She pulls her hair into a ponytail as Sansa brushes through hers, rubs off the tiny amount of lipstick left on her lips. Ginny kneels on the bed to kiss Sansa one more time and then she pulls open the curtains and they walk down the common room as if nothing is any different.

“Sansa!” Arya spots them as they cross the room to the portrait hole. Ginny immediately checks her face for any stray lipstick smudges, tries not to be obvious with her adjusting of her top. “What are you doing here?”

“Ginny was showing me her Pygmy Puff,” Sansa explains. “Arnold.”

Ginny tries not to giggle at the euphemism and fails miserably. “He doesn’t like to leave the tower and I’ve been going on about him to Sansa.”

“She’s been insufferable,” Sansa agrees. “Anyway, I have to go. Homework,” which Ginny knows for a fact is a lie but it’s always a believable excuse. “See you later.”

Once she’s out the portrait hole Ginny moves to join Harry, Ron, and Hermione by the fire but before she move Arya asks, “Did you get Arnold from your brothers’ shop?”

“Yeah, they had loads over the summer. George says they’ve been selling quickly but I can ask him to hold one back if you’re interested...?” She trails off, paranoid that Arya is eyeing a mark of Sansa’s lipstick on her forehead.

“Could you? It’s Bran’s birthday next month and my mum won’t let him have one.”

Ginny nods sagely. “I know all about parental loopholes,” mirroring the grin Arya flashes her. “Sure, I’ll owl George later.”

“Thanks, Ginny. I’ll see you at practice, if Harry doesn’t cancel the next one again.”

“Oh, that was extenuating circumstances,” Ginny reassures her, remembering Harry’s guilt at cancelling a practice for an unavoidable meeting with Dumbledore. “He wants to win as much as we do.”

“I hope so,” Arya says and then disappears off into the common room, not before sending another glance Ginny’s way that has her tugging at her t-shirt.

“Are you okay, Ginny?” Hermione asks when she flops onto a chair beside Harry. “We didn’t see you in Hogsmeade.”

Ginny groans, draws it out. “I had a Transfiguration essay that took me all day; the conclusion still needs done.”

Hermione sighs in sympathy. “I can take a look over it if you want,” which elicits outraged gasps from Ron.

“No thanks, ‘Mione,” Ginny says easily. “I’ll do it later tonight. Did you get anything from Honeydukes? I’m starving.”

“Here.” Harry chucks a Chocolate Frog and a couple of Pepper Imps at her.

“I know you’re told this on a regular basis, Harry, and it must get tiring, but you’re the best.” Ginny bites the head off her frog, throws the card at Ron who’s looking between Ginny and Harry with a sly look on his face. Trust him to suspect something’s going on when Ginny hasn’t fancied Harry for ages, okay, since last year at least.

Harry grins, goes back to his Quidditch magazine. “It could never get tiring, Gin,” he says airily, causing Hermione to roll her eyes at Ginny. Harry passes her some fudge and Ginny feels content enough to tip her head back against the arm rest and allow her eyes to close.

“Ginny, is that lipstick on your neck?”

Merlin.

  
  


.

  


“Tell me about your family,” Ginny asks, her head in Sansa’s lap during a warm day in the middle of May. It’s a nice place to be -- Sansa’s fingers in her hair, the warmth of her body beside her cheek, and a breeze light on her skin.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Ginny sighs. Everyone knows all about the Weasleys and their exploits but the Starks are almost as big, with a pureblood line sprawling back just as long, and yet Ginny knows hardly anything about them. “We’ve been doing this for a while now and the only things I know is that Robb and Arya are on the team with me and Jon’s very mysterious.”

“All you all bloody talk about is Quidditch,” Sansa says, that long-thought exasperation. “My family is --” she pauses, long enough that Ginny looks up to catch a smile on her face that is a personification of that feeling Ginny has about her unruly, chaotic, difficult, wonderful family. It’s a look where you struggle for words because how do you put that attachment, camaraderie, and sheer annoyance into a sentence. But Sansa glances down, meets Ginny’s gaze, and says, “They’re exhausting and stubborn and they all know exactly how to wind me up but I love them.”

Ginny raises her hand to graze Sansa’s arm, fingers dancing along to reach her hand where she holds it, brings it down to her stomach. “How many brothers do you have?”

“Three and two honorary ones -- plus a sister.”

“I think you added those honorary ones to match my six,” Ginny offers.

Sansa snorts. “I’ll swap you Theon for any one of yours.”

“Oh. I didn’t realise Theon had spent time with you. Did Asha stay as well?”

There’s something tense in the way Sansa is holding her hand. “The Greyjoys have Dark connections --  nothing major but Balon’s ambitious and bitter and so my dad took in Theon. There’s always been a grey area as to whether he did it to protect Theon or to ensure Balon’s compliance with the Ministry but, yeah, Theon became an extra brother.”

“And Jon’s the other?”

“Jon’s always been around,” Sansa tells her, simple. “Hey, Gin,” she ducks her head, conspiratorially low. “I know this is bad but if you had to pick --?”

“A favourite brother? Bill,” which is a very quick answer but it’s always been that way. Ginny’s idolised Bill since she could talk, since _before_ then according to her mum. “He works in Gringotts and is the coolest person I’ve ever known.”

“Gringotts,” Sansa repeats, another career opportunity blossoming in front of her.

“Who’s yours?”

Sansa hums, fingers careful at the base of Ginny’s neck. “I couldn't choose.”

“Everyone can choose,” Ginny argues. “Come on.”

“Robb,” Sansa says, the name sitting on her tongue, waiting for permission. “He has a heart of gold, you know how rare that is.”

Ginny hums her agreement, thinks of Luna, Harry, Ron, and their hearts too big for their chests. “And Arya?”

“Arya’s Arya,” Sansa sighs. “Well, you know her too from the team -- she’s always been a tomboy, always looking for a fight. There was a time when we couldn’t be in the same room with each other without accidentally pulling magic on the other; it drove my mum mad.”

Ginny laughs. “I was the same with Ron. But things are better now?”

“They are. I think she knows about this, actually, if that’s okay.”

“Sansa, we can tell everyone or we can tell no one, everything’s fine with me.”

With that, a small step across the line from secrets and rushed snogs behind tapestries, Ginny sits up and kisses Sansa under the cover of the emptiness of their patch of grass behind a tree.

“I want to tell people about you,” Sansa says decisively. She threads a daisy chain, years of expertise quickening the process, and nestles it in Ginny’s hair. She meets Ginny’s eyes as she’s sorting the flowers and in them she sees something that makes Ginny’s breath hitch.

The words she wants to say out loud catch on the dryness of her throat and then when they’re almost out Sansa cuts her off with a story about Rickon and Bran and a pile of daisies as tall as their dog.

Ginny settles for leaning in and joining their mouths again, relishing in the languid, easy, familiar feel of Sansa taking up every space within her. So this is love.

  


.

  


Their secret gets blown open when Ginny’s hand closes around the Snitch in the final, a Chaser filling in for their Captain, and Ginny can't hold back the joy at bringing her team to victory. She hugs her teammates on the way down, the success tinged with bitter sweetness at the absence of Harry, but then she breaks free and seeks out Sansa in the stands. She catches her eye, waits for the roar of the crowd to subside, for students to start climbing down from their seats, and then Ginny rushes over, grins excitedly at Sansa’s garbled congratulations, and then she throws everything to the mercy of those around them and loops her arms around Sansa’s neck, raises onto her toes, and kisses her hard, her brilliant day blooming ever greater at the feel of Sansa’s hands around her and her mouth on hers.

  


.

  


Jon jokingly accuses Sansa of teaming up with the enemy, a Hufflepuff with no stakes in the final, but his hand finds her shoulder and squeezes, flashes her a smile, and it's fine.

The rest of the family act similarly. Arya makes noises about keeping secrets and Sansa mutters back about cauldrons calling others black, throwing in a pointed look at Gendry Waters and Arya subsides, hugs Sansa. “Ginny’s kind of my idol,” she admits. “Don't hurt her.”

“I think you're meant to be saying that the other way,” Sansa replies, which makes Ginny laugh when she hears it later.

On Ginny’s side things are much the same. Luna claims she's always known about Ginny’s wider than initially thought preferences and Ron blinks a couple of times, nods like something makes sense, and gives her a one-armed hug which feels vaguely hypocritical after his reaction to her and Dean but she’ll take it. Hermione, like with a lot of things, is generally the best.

“I didn't know you were a lesbian, Gin,” Ron says a few days after the final. “What was all that with Harry then?”

Ginny rolls her eyes at Harry who grins back. “I can fancy Harry just as much as I fancy Sansa,” she says. “I just happen to fancy Sansa a lot more now -- no offence, Harry.” Harry shrugs, easy. In fact, not to inflate any more rumours, but Harry has asked Ginny a couple of pointed questions over the last couple of days. “I’m bi,” she tells Ron, Harry sitting up a little straighter in his chair at the word, and if only Ginny knew this was the first of many corrections she was going to have to make.

  


.

  


"Did you hear Ginny Weasley's a lesbian?" the rumours say, whispers behind hands, long looks in corridors, and it's annoying because --

“There’s more to a person than their sexuality,” Ginny tells a sixth year boy who sniggers when she looks in his direction. “I’m a Chaser, I fought at the Ministry, I’m great at Charms, isn’t that more interesting than who I’m dating?”

Well, no, not to the population of Hogwarts because Ginny Weasley is something of a star figure, for precisely the reasons listed above, and Sansa Stark is the beautiful, smart daughter of a leading Order member who has risen from the ashes -- excuse the phoenix metaphor, it’s the red hair -- after her abusive relationship with Joffrey Baratheon was avenged by her siblings. Separate they instil curiosity and wonder in students and together -- together they shine.

  
  


.

  


After a particularly chaotic Herbology exam, Ginny and Luna leave Greenhouse 3 feeling relatively confident about their efforts. As Luna says, exams aren’t the basis of their success.

“What are you doing now that we’re free?” Ginny asks, tipping her head back to the sun, arms spread wide.

“Padma’s having a party, I think, but I’m not sure if I’ll go.”

“Go,” Ginny encourages. After the past fortnight with the Battle, Dumbledore, and exams on top of that, it’s okay to take a break for one night and have a bit of fun. “Sansa mentioned something about it to me -- I’ll get her to bring me along later if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Oh, no, it’s not that.” Luna squints up at the sun, shields her eyes. “Daddy always says parties have the potential to create fear and danger amongst the creatures who hide in those spaces. Like Nargles, for example, they --”

“I’ll keep an eye on the Nargles for you,” Ginny interrupts gently. “Sansa swears she hasn’t seen one in your common room for ages.”

“Sansa Sansa Sansa,” Luna replies, and you can’t always tell from Luna’s tone but her smile tells Ginny she’s teasing.

“Merlin, I know, sorry about that,” she says as though it’s something she can control.

Luna laughs. “No, it’s nice, seeing you like this. You’re so happy the Wrackspurts around us can’t bear to be near you.”

Ginny links her arm with Luna’s as they walk towards the castle. “I better keep on doing what I’m doing then if it keeps the Wrackspurts away.”

“Continuing on with something that makes you happy is always the best thing to do,” Luna agrees.

  


.

  


The year ends with a bittersweet journey back to King’s Cross. There’s no telling what the next few months will bring, if there’ll even be a Hogwarts to come back to, but Ginny likes to be hopeful, if only by doing it by spite in defiance of the Death Eaters who try so hard to make them miserable.

“Come and visit me over the summer, okay?” Sansa says as they get off the train and join the hundreds of students milling around the platform. “I’ve got so much I want to show you.”

“And you’ll come to the wedding?” Ginny can’t wait to hear Aunt Muriel’s comments about her dating a girl. She can’t _wait_.

“Of course. I have to meet the coolest person you know, seeing as it’s not me.”

This is where Ginny says, “Well, you’re the best part of everything else so it’s only fair,” which is Celestina levels of cheesy but this is the place for things like that if there ever was one.

Sansa beams and Merlin, are her eyes wet? Ginny can’t cry here.

“Oi! Ginny!” The soothing sounds of her collection of brothers hurries the goodbyes along.

“I’ve got to go. I’ll owl you about dates,” and then Ginny rises onto her tip-toes, hands around Sansa’s neck, and pulls out a goodbye kiss Celestina will wish she’d written songs about. The sweetness of Sansa’s lipstick combines with the tanginess of the Acid Pop they’d been sharing on the train and Ginny spares a stray thought to how she can recreate the taste.

Someone makes a noise between a yelp and a gasp and Ginny hears George say, “I didn’t know Ginny was into girls.”

“She’s bi,” Ron says knowledgeably and Ginny can imagine the smug look on his face. “That means she likes everyone.”

“Hard luck, Harry,” Fred adds. “I’ve heard a lot about the Starks -- you don’t want to go pissing them off.”

Ginny hears Harry laugh. “I think I’ll be okay, Fred, thanks.”

“Come on, Ginny,” Ron shouts. “Sansa’s better than the rest of them you’ve fancied but this is getting out of hand.”

Ginny keeps her hand at Sansa’s neck when she goes to pull away, drawing the kiss out past Ron’s demands.

“I’ll see you soon, Sansa,” Ginny says, hugging her tightly.

Sansa squeezes her waist. “I’ve had a good year, Ginny,” she tells her.

“I’ve had a great year,” Ginny replies, grinning. She wants to say once again how much it has meant to her to be with Sansa but they’ve made enough a public display as it is and really, she’s going to see her again in a couple of weeks, and they can write, and Sansa can take the Apparition test soon -- everything’s coming up for them.

“Sansa,” Arya shouts on her way past to their parents. “We’ve got to go -- something about Shaggydog and Bran’s Pygmy Puff.”

“Our families sound eerily similar,” Ginny observes.

Sansa laughs. “Didn’t I tell you? Our meeting was written in the stars.”

And Ginny has become just enough of a romantic these past few months that she believes it.

 

 


End file.
